Harry Potter & the Legacy of the Ring
by Fyrie
Summary: Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter crossover: The world is changed. Much that once was has been forgotten through the passage of time. In the growing darkness, a weapon from time immemorial is rediscovered (Updated November 28th)
1. Prologue

Harry Potter and the Legacy of the Ring

Prologue

Author's Warning/Notes: Yes, I - Fyre - am writing a Schnoogle-length Lord of the Rings/ Harry Potter crossover. May I be forgiven for this sacrilege. I always said I would never do one, as I doubted I could manage such an epic, as Tolkien's world and Rowling's seemed so vastly different. I was wrong. In the first week of January, 2003, viewing PS, CoS, FoTR & TTT in rapid succession granted the muse a glimpse of an idea. Stage one was complete.  
Reading LoTR, The Silmarillion and The Hobbit at once, the idea solidified. Research came to pass and timelines and datelines were sorted out. It _seemed_ plausible. Stage two, done and dusted.  
So, then came my dear friends who are Lord of the Ring fans, who I bounced ideas off. They picked the plot apart for holes. I gave them answers to near every question they posed and those I couldn't answer were reviewed and researched until I could answer. They gave it the go-ahead. Stage three sorted... then problems.  
I had only ever written two Lord of the Rings fics on the back of the films and one reading of the books. I was terrified I would not be able to do Tolkien's world justice. Then, a miracle in disguise came to pass, in the form of a LoTR RPG. I started playing (Gandalf, Gimli, Glorfindel, Boromir and Pippin. Me? Overexerting myself? Never!), while reading and re-reading the books voraciously. That was when I found I could write in the style I so sorely needed. I started to write a scene and it emerged in a style unlike I've ever written before, almost diet-Tolkien, if I may be so bold as to use that description. Stage four was behind me.  
And now, I present to you the prologue. I don't yet know how long the series will be in its totality as many of my series take on a life of their own while being written, but suffice to say that it will touch at least ten chapters and may take some time to write. I thank you in advance for your patience.  


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_This is a story of long ago.  
_- **The Hobbit**

_Also - and here I hope I shall sound absurd - I was from early days grieved by the poverty of my own beloved country: it had no stories of its own.  
_- **Letter from J.R.R. Tolkien to Milton Waldman (1951)**

_Yet always I had the sense of recording what was already 'there', somewhere: not of 'inventing'.  
_- **Letter from J.R.R. Tolkien to Milton Waldman (1951)**

_The World is changed. I feel it in the water. I feel it in the earth. I smell it in the air. Much that once was is lost, for none now live who remember it.  
History became legend, legend became myth.  
_-** The Fellowship of the Ring (Movie) **

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Just as the warming face of the sun must rise and - through the steps of time - fall, so must the races of the world tread a path across the sky of their lifetime, sinking into peaceful night with the end of their days.

Thus has it always been and thus will it always be, until the very end of the World.

Even so, just as the sun may be blotted out by a cloud upon its face, sending it into an untimely twilight, so too can fear and danger threaten to devour those who are caught unawares.

Such was the fate of the World, once called Middle-earth, a name lost through the passing of years. Then, so many moons ago, a shadow from time immemorial was resurrected, and desired to cloak the lands and peoples of Middle-earth in darkness.

It was a time when Elves, Men and many other races existed in some semblance of harmony, although none of the races was entirely without suspicion and distrust of the others. In this state, disorder grew. 

Sauron, one time ally of the beginner of evil, donned a false face of goodness, and deceived the races of Middle-earth with words of cunning. He provided knowledge to create the famed rings of power, with which it was possible for the races of Men, Elves and Dwarves to govern justly, were their intentions good.

However, Sauron's intentions were not justice or peace, but domination.

In that time, he forged a weapon in the depths of the fires of Mount Doom: A simple gold ring, a mere token to some, became a tool, a device of manipulation and power that yet threatened to engulf the very world, controlling the other races through the very rings he had taught them to craft. 

The wisdom of the Elves perceived the threat, the three rings crafted by their Kind hidden from all memory, and far from Sauron's long reach. The seven granted to the Dwarf Lords were lost or destroyed. The nine rings, however, that were given over to the hands of Men, to mighty Kings, corrupted them, bringing them all under the dark power of Sauron.

His shadow spread, darkening from the East. One by one, the lands of Middle-earth succumbed to the power of Mordor and the Lord of the Ring, until a final alliance of Men and Elves faced the Dark Lord, by the light of the fires of Mount Doom.

Cut from the hand of its maker by the broken blade of Narsil, sword of Isildur, the Ring yet survived. It corrupted the leader of Men to prevent its own destruction, only to betray him, abandoning him, vanishing from all knowledge. 

For many years, it had been lost, forgotten; or, perhaps, making itself unnoticed, waiting in readiness until the time was right. As is oft the case, that which is hidden too eagerly appears when it can cause the most hurt; fear and doubt once more possessing all those who inhabited the lands.

From the chaos emerged an unlikely hero, a Hobbit, Frodo Baggins.

With a Fellowship of Nine drawn from the races of Middle-earth: Elf, dwarf, Man and Hobbit; he was the one chosen to destroy the ring and, in doing so, destroy Sauron the Deceiver, and Master of the One Ring.

The quest was not without peril; one of their fellowship falling in battle, all of them torn asunder to follow their own quests. Still, they strove onward, each of them keeping the quest close in heart and mind, hoping beyond hope that they might yet succeed.

As they journeyed on, Middle-earth was tossed mercilessly in the roiling waves of bitter war, Sauron's ally and one-time good wizard Saruman, who too had been seduced by the power of the Ring, intent on destroying the world of men. 

Armies composed of the beastliest of creatures created by the darkest powers converged on all the lands of Men, both from the darkness of Mordor and Orthanc, wreaking death and disaster upon all who dared to stand against them.

But when the end came, the Ring was destroyed, once more consumed in the flames from whence it was created in the bowels of Mount Doom, the only place where it could be unmade. In that instant, the threat of Sauron was vanquished and what power was held over the rings was no more.

Already at odds with the world they inhabited, the races of Elves knew that their time had passed, many of them choosing to pass into the West, taking the ships across the bending sea, to the Undying Lands.

Among them travelled the three bearers of the Elven Rings of Power: Lady Galadriel of Lothlorien, Lord Elrond Half-Elven of Imladris and Mithrandir - who was called Gandalf the White and had been one of the Fellowship: and Frodo Baggins, the Ring Bearer, who had carried the One Ring and destroyed it.

In leaving the lands of Middle-earth, the time of the Elves was over and the time had come for the race of men to show their worth. 

Taught by both Elves and the Istarti, powerful beings sent by the creators of the worlds and called 'wizards' by the simple minds of men, it was believed mankind had some measure of goodness after all.

However, the judgement proved to be flawed.

In spite of all that had been learned and the wisdom that many of them bore, they scattered upon vast face of the earth, falling into conflict with one another. 

War, disease and disaster took a great toll upon their numbers, the lands divided unfairly among the peoples, the lack of a rival of a different species leading to internal conflict. No longer did they have others to blame for their shortcomings, so they were forced to blame others of their ilk.

What differences Men could find in one another, they used as weapons. There were those of certain lines who had been gifted with abilities that were viewed as unnatural to many. To those without such gifts, the blessed ones were viewed as the enemy and vice versa.

Battles raged, many losing lives and minds in the conflict, although there were some who - concealing themselves - preserved what knowledge they could. It was done in hopes that, one day, perhaps ones wiser than those of their time might find it and return the world to the glory it had once held.

Thus, the race of Men descended once more to the depths and darkness of ignorance, forced to emerge from the ruins of their world, scraping a living on the very crust of the Earth. 

Much of what had been known and remembered was forgotten as the time of Men began afresh.

Skills lost in the conflicts of men were rediscovered, the world regaining some of its beauty, records and the written word once more used to detail the 'history' of their kind. Once the first steps had been taken, the crushed memories took shape, and once more blossomed into the potential for a wondrous world.

Cities were built, then rebuilt once more, lost societies reformed, culture moving at a brisk pace. Men began to work for the common good, learning from the folly of old. Some still battled, yet many strove to greatness, Empires and Kingdoms rising and falling, Kings, Lord, Sultans, Barons, all taking their places.

Thus, the rise of Mankind to its former greatness was begun. 

Time passed, as time does, and that which in history had been regarded with fear and awe was reduced to little more than a substanceless storytelling. No more were the legends of the beauty of the Elves and the horror of the One Ring counted as anything more than fireside tales to amuse. 

Even in the area of the world of Men where magic and mystery thrived and wizards and witches, those descended from the gifted ones first taught by Elf-kind and the Istarti, were as numerous as stars in the sky, most scoffed at the belief that the famous tale of the One Ring was anything more than that: a tale.

So, the terror of the One became legend and, through the passage of time, was slowly placed in the realm of myth. Few, if any, believed that such stories were aught but a false history. Even of those very few, only one truly came to believe and understand the power of the One Ring. 

And, in him, the hungry shadow that had threatened to devour Middle-earth so many millennia past had, at last, found a new Master.

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Author's Notes: *pants* I do honestly believe that was the most difficult thing I've ever had to write: so much basic information to cover without giving too much away. Getting started is always a nightmare, especially on something as in depth as this. *pats her reference books* Plus, this is as far from my normal style as is humanly possible and I'm really enjoying writing it :D Hope you like it! If not, I beg of you - be gentle ;-) 

  
  
Chapter One  



	2. Chapter One

Chapter One - The Shadows of the Past

Author's Notes: With a title blatantly borrowed from Professor Tolkien himself, we begin. If I can, I'm aiming to use his chapter names where it is possible simply because I love them dearly. I vowed I wouldn't become a Tolkien-geek. Too late :) Believe me, there is a lot to be covered in this story. I simply hope I can answer all your questions in the process of the tale. Oh, and the quotes at the beginning of each chapter are the ones I can cite as inspiration for the storyline. Tolkien really was an awfully amusing foreword and letter writer.

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_With the aid of Sauron's lore, they made the _Rings of Power_.  
_- **Letter from J.R.R. Tolkien to Milton Waldman (1951) **

_Saruman, failing to get possession of the Ring, would in the confusion and treacheries of the time have found in Mordor the missing links in his own researches in Ring-lore, and before long he would have made a Great Ring of his own with which to challenge the self-styled Ruler of Middle-earth.  
_- **The Lord of the Rings: Foreword (1978 Edition) **

_They got cold feet when they saw what he was prepared to do to get power, though.  
- _**Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (Ch. 6 – Pg. 104)**

_I knew that Voldemort's knowledge of magic is perhaps more extensive than any wizard alive.  
_- **Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (Ch. 37 – Pg. 736) **

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Summer had once more come to the South of England, winter long since brushed aside by the kiss of spring, which had given way to the present season, long days and short nights filling the months. Seldom had the seasons been so generous in their warmth and dryness, the land near baked solid by so many days of sunlight.

Row upon row of houses basked in the rays of the face of the beaming sun, each one indistinguishable from the next to the casual observer, the heat beating down upon them, driving the inhabitants into the shelter of the buildings.

All but one person.

A boy treading the path to manhood.

Harry Potter.

Almost unnaturally slender for his almost sixteen years, his features were worn with fatigue and grief, his threadbare clothing hanging from his body. Beneath the dark waves of his hair and behind the scratched glass of spectacles, his eyes, as vivid as emerald, were shadowed by things unmentionable and rimmed by red. 

He had, for years, been credited as the Saviour of the world of the gifted ones – of the wizards and witches whose powers were concealed from those who were without abilities – due to a moment of sheer luck and chance that had saved his life only moments after his parents had been struck down.

Little more than a year in age, the protection and sacrifice of his mother had cast an unseen charm upon him that had saved his life, marking him only with a scar when he was touched by a curse that had smote down so many others. 

The simple scar was the very thing to carry his fame, his otherwise indistinguishable features made famous by the lightning-shaped line that marred a brow that had recently grown lined with worries and turmoil that no child ever ought to bear. 

The charm of love that repelled the curse which had been directed upon him had reversed that curse upon its caster, the wizard known as Lord Voldemort, who had thus been vanquished for night fourteen years, his body little more than a shapeless mass.

For years, he had remained so, in spite of attempts to restore himself. Even when Harry had joined one of the schools for the gifted ones, he had been the one to drive the Dark Wizard away once more. 

Until early in the previous summer, shortly before the end of his fourth year.

Mingling the bone of his own father, the flesh of one of his many servants and the blood of Harry Potter, Lord Voldemort had once again acquired physical form, once more eager in his desire to kill the youth. 

Fortuitously, Harry had managed to escape through his own skill and the aid of the shades of those killed by the Dark Lord, but that had not been sufficient to dissuade Voldemort in his desire to see the boy dead. 

Only recently, had Harry learned the truth of the matter: A prophecy made before his birth had foretold that he – or some other child born at the latter end of the seventh month – would be the one to defeat the Dark Lord. It had proven to be him. 

Word of some part of the prophecy had reached the ever-listening ears of Lord Voldemort, who had desired at once to kill the child as soon as he was born. 

His reason had been simple fear, an emotion even he had never harnessed.

Not only had the prophecy carried the foreboding news that the birth of the one able to vanquish him was nigh, but also the ringing warning that 'neither can live while the other survives', something which Voldemort had taken to heart. It had become a choice of himself or the child.

In killing the child before Harry was capable of striking back with his own hands, the Dark Wizard had believed he would be safe from harm, but instead, his attack had nigh resulted in his destruction.

Even so many years on, Voldemort's fear of the prophecy was still strong. His most recent assault upon the world of the Wizards and Witches had struck at the very heart of the world, in the Ministry of Magic, in a vain attempt to retrieve the prophecy and, in doing that, to discover the means to destroy Harry.

He had failed, but in the chaos, battle had still taken its toll upon those who fought on the side of the light. 

Now, in the wake of the events of previous months, Voldemort had once more vanished, leaving Harry Potter once more languishing in the loveless care of his only blood kin, his mother's sister and her husband and son.

This was something else he had of late been informed of: the blood shared by his mother and his aunt had provided a protection for him that still lingered, as long as he resided in the house of the Dursleys at least once yearly. Thus, he had no choice but to return to them for the summer.

As he had the previous year, he languished amid the flowerbeds, if only to be out of the house he was forced to live in with them, his intention to avoid their company and wrath. If Voldemort hated him for who he was, then his own family despised him for what he was. 

Resting upon his back on the sparse summer grass, his attention lingered upon the faint wisps of cloud that clung to the clear blue of the sky above him, his thoughts cast even further afield than the sun above him.

Much had he on his mind and, in his isolation from friends and those he cared for, too often did his thoughts stray to that which troubled him most, to the battle so recently lost, to the friend and guardian so recently… killed.

Harry Potter closed his tear-drained eyes once more, the hands woven behind his head balling into tight fists. It took all his effort to suppress the wild, ringing scream that he longed to release, his throat closing at the very thought of that which had been lost, because of him.

The man who had been his father's closest friend and who would have become his guardian and surrogate father had died, because Harry – in his childish folly – had walked straight into a trap that had been arranged by the dark wizard who desired him dead.

Sirius Black.

He had fallen in battle, fighting one of his own kin, the very kin he had abandoned so many years before because of their very ideals, the ideals that were followed and supported by the Dark Wizard whom had been Harry's greatest enemy since birth.

Even to think on him caused a pang of pain so very great that it stole the breath from Harry's lungs. The boy's face shifted once more in a vain attempt to quash all tears that still lingered beneath his lids, yet one still escaped, sliding freely down the pale skin of his face.

With a sigh, he pushed himself upright, his eyes closing in brief remembrance. This, he knew, was not what his Godfather would have willed for him, to spend every hour of every lonely day contemplating that which was lost, in vain hopes that it was little more than a nightmare.

Nightmares he already had in abundance.

Ever since his memory would permit, he could recall dreams of darkness, but only of late had they become increasingly clearer and truer, an overlap and sometimes invasion of his mind by the Dark Lord.

At his School, Hogwarts, the prior year, it had become essential that he learn to block this invasion by learning the skill of occlumency, but he had not; and, because of it, Voldemort had succeeded in planting a vision in his mind which had resulted in his error. It was this that meant his godfather was evermore gone from his sight.

Still, the guilt lingered and he had struggled and practised every night since the fateful one, hour upon hour, as he tried to find sleep, to bring his mind entirely back under his own control.

Yet, dreams still breached the mantle.

Some were simple to understand; faces, masks, anger and impatience. Others, more recent ones, had felt smothered somehow, as if there was something distorting the connection between him and the Dark One, the images that permeated his mind no longer accurate but staggered, random.

Especially of late.

It almost seemed, to the boy, that the Dark Wizard was deliberately evading his mind, ignoring his very existence, which seemed a strange mode of behaviour for the wizard who had spent years trying to kill him. 

Suspicious of the Dark Lord's motions, Harry had scoured the news for word of anything amiss, yet naught appeared. It did seem that the Dark Lord had dropped from the very face of society, concealing himself once more. 

With some of his allies incarcerated and others in hiding, there seemed little Voldemort could do but conceal himself, yet that only raised in Harry a sense of concern about what the Dark Lord had in mind.

An image that had haunted him, night after night, was that of something aflame. It was blurred, perhaps by the very heat of the air in the location, but clearly flaming, bright and dangerous; vivid, flickering, flaring orange and reds before him.

On one occasion, he was sure he saw a thin hand extended and something small, barely even visible, glittering in the sweat-dampened palm, eerie by the fickle light. 

Sometimes, in the distance, he could see the face of rock and stone, dark and scattered with light from the glow beneath, the heat waking him, tangled in his bedding and sweating. 

From whence it came, he knew not, the place arousing no memories in him.

In the wake of such dreams, though, his desire to master the art of occlumency had increased tenfold and he had finally succeeded in easing the pain in the scar that marred his brow, simply by focussing upon closing his mind to others.

For that blessing, he was grateful and it had been days since he had suffered such a dream, leaving him only concerned by his own guilt and grief.

How he longed for the day when he could join his friends and be once more in the company of those who cared for him. Tilting his face once more to the sun, he pushed all thoughts of his enemy to the back of his mind.

Soon, he knew. Soon he would be with them once more.

***

Far from any towns of villages, concealed by spells and charms of all varieties, a Mansion, crouched in the gloom of a valley, spread gracefully upon the grounds like a panther preparing to attack.

Only recently had the Master of the Mansion acquired his liberty from the wizarding prison, where he had briefly been imprisoned, once more able to depend on the strength of his gold to gain liberation. 

Returning to his home, he had vowed to those in power that he would change for the better, nevermore to be held under the control of the Dark Lord. 

A lie indeed.

His contact with his Master had never failed, his loyalty unwavering, his home the deceptively beautiful container of powers dark and deadly.

While many would be fool enough to assume that the building was nothing more than a simple, if large and beautiful house, those who knew the inhabitants better also knew that there was nothing about the house which could be considered normal.

Indeed, one of the present residents of the Mansion was certainly as distanced from 'normal' as was possible. 

Of late returned from distant lands, his task there unknown even to his most loyal of followers, his powers seemed drained. Even so, though his flame seemed somewhat smothered, it was still faintly aglow, and he had been counselled to take some rest. 

Seldom one to obey, he had acknowledged the words of his allies. Indeed, he knew what his task had entailed and knew that, in time, his brief weakness would be replaced with the strength of ages. 

Despite bearing the look of a starved skeleton, pale and gaunt, he was strong in mind and spirit. Carrying with him all darkness, he was biding his time, his absent powers waxing as the days past, unknown to his followers. 

Only months earlier, some of his more foolish followers had voiced their doubts in him, as he seemed to be spending many long hours in research, poring over ancient manuscripts and histories of histories. His thirst for knowledge, it seemed, had dimmed his desire for domination.

Those very followers found themselves under the scrutiny of his displeased eye, death capturing both of them and silencing any whispers that might have otherwise brought his control into question.

He had vanished for nigh three months recently, none aware of his location, not even the wretched worm whom he maintained as a servant. Doubt and fear had once more surfaced among his followers and that was when he had chosen to return, stooped and weary.

And now, he rested.

The room where he was housed was cool, and dark. A sense of deep unease permeated the very walls, shadows peeling away from the dark wooden panels of the walls to caress his motionless form where he sat. 

Seated at the desk that looked out upon the grand grounds of the Mansion, steeped in silence, the only sound to escape the deceptively frail figure was the rasp of his breathing upon the smothering air. Slants of moonlight cut upon him, shadow and light bisecting his features, his eyes closed.

Long, skeletal fingers depressed upon the smooth, polished surface of the desktop, a sigh fluttering from the lipless maw which served as the figure's mouth, little more than an angular slash in a face as white as bone. The flicker of the light of candles sharpened the shadows on features already distorted and nightmarish.

"My Lord?"

Upon the barely spoken words, the once-man at the desk turned eyes as red as burnished carnelians upon its owner. "Lucius," he said, in a voice soft and deadly as quicksand. "Did I give you leave to speak?"

The form of a man, clad in dark robes that countered his silver hair, and silhouetted in the frame of the door, stiffened. "No, my Lord," His voice betrayed his fear, at which his master smiled, cold and thin. Fear was good. That his servants still feared him assured him that, in spite of his current condition, they were not all fools. "It is simply that... that is, we were curious as to your recovery..."

Silence clung upon the air, corroding the atmosphere like a cancer.

"You believe I am weak, Lucius," the voice was soft. Calm. Reproving. Mocking. A lift of the narrow mouth was reflected in the polished surface of the window, scarlet eyes hooded. "Don't you?"

"Never, my Lord!"

The figure at the desk pushed the heavy chair back, a squeal of wood on wood deafening in the silent room, and rose, dark robes loose about his narrow body. "You lie, Lucius," he said quietly. "I know your mind. Simply because I have temporarily displaced my strength does not mean I am weak." One spider-like hand splayed upon a chest that was bone-thin beneath the thick fabric of the robes. "Only a fool would believe so."

"Yes, my Lord. I did not mean to doubt..."

"Of course you did not, my dear Lucius," There was a soft chuckle. "After all, we all know how very fatal that might be for you." The man in the doorway shuddered, but said nothing, clearly recalling the mutilated bodies of his former cohorts. 

Before the desk, the tall, thin, wraith-like man turned away from his servant, his eyes drifting to the surface of a small, engraved box, which lay close at hand. It gleamed by the light of the candles upon the walls and desktop.

"No one realises, yet, the power I have discovered," he said thoughtfully. Thin fingers traced the pattern upon the lid of the box. "A power that only the few from times past, those who no longer linger in our world, would know how to destroy." As he spoke, he smiled. It was terrifying. "No one knows all that I do and none will be able to take it from me. "

"It, my Lord?"

The narrow slits that served as the thin man's nostrils dilated, a soft gasp trailing from his parted lips. "Power, my fool," he breathed, a tremor in his voice that spoke of excitement. "A power which belongs to me as much as I belong to it." 

In the doorway, the silver-haired man's eyes glittered with consternation. "What do you mean, my Lord?"

The Dark Lord smiled, a mere, brief shift of the line of his mouth, tapping the small, insignificant box. "I mean, Lucius," the wizard once called Tom Riddle said, "that I have found the key to unlock all power that should be available to me." 

His aide said nothing for several moments, although his expression suggested that he believed his Master had lost his mind. Finally, he spoke. "If I may ask, my Lord..."

"You may not, Lucius," Voldemort's voice was as cold as the winter's snow upon the mountains. His eyes closed briefly, a tremor moving through him as he lifted the lid upon the box. Lucius Malfoy craned forwards, trying to gain a glimpse of the object upon which his Master was so intent.

By the faint, flickering light of the candles, he could see a simple trinket: a gleaming ring of gold nestled in a bed of black velvet, flame casting warming hues across the surface, which seemed to ripple with glimmering letters.

His brow furrowed in puzzlement. "A ring?" So bemused was he, that he forgot the standard honorific, Voldemort's eyes moving to him. Hairless brows rose in silent challenge, as if daring the fair-haired wizard to question him further. "My Lord, pardon my ignorance, but what use is a ring...?"

Voldemort's lipless mouth twisted somewhat. His fingers ghosted lovingly over the surface of the simple gold band, a shiver of pleasure running through his body. "It is not merely a ring, my fool," he whispered, more for himself than his servant. "Now, it is _the_ Ring that will solve all." 

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Author's Notes: Yes, I read Order of the Phoenix. Yes, I know Lucius went to jail but nyah! I need Lucius in this story, because a) I need his elitist personality kicking about and b) I letch on him. Deal with it! This is my one little luxury! 

  
  
  
Prologue  
Next Chapter - Coming Fairly Soon  



	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two - The Gathering of the Clouds

Author's Notes: Yepyep, another Tolkien chapter title. This one is chapter 15 of The Hobbit. Apologies for the delay, but work had to take priority for a little while, unfortunately. Thanks to all those lovely people who reviewed and just for those of you who asked about how Voldemort got the ring, since it was destroyed, I would suggest going back and reading the quotes at the beginning of chapter one. Every quote used is selected for a reason :)

Oh, and for the geeks out there, there's a quote from a popular film hidden in this chapter. I know at least two people will be able to identify it, at the very least :D

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_It was made plain that the power of the Three Rings also was ended, and to the Firstborn the world grew old and grey.   
And latest of all the Keepers of the Three Rings rode to the Sea, and Master Elrond took there the ship that Círdan had made ready. In the twilight of autumn it sailed out of Mithlond, until the seas of the Bent World fell away beneath it, and the winds of the round sky troubled it no more, and borne upon the high airs above the mists of the world, it passed into the Ancient West, and an end was come for the Eldar of story and of song.  
_******- The Silmarillion (Page 366 (1999 ed.) - Of The Rings of Power)**

****

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From whence it came, they knew not.

All that was known to those of the world of the blessed ones was that the vessel had simply appeared out of nowhere, unseen by those without their gifts, unnoticed by the most advanced of sciences, invisible to all but them.

Whether it was friend or foe, they did not know.

Beautiful beyond reckoning, gleaming with a light unnatural and wondrous, it had coalesced from ethereal mists over the turbulent seas, gliding with a smooth grace that seemed nigh impossible for such a great ship. Around it, threads of mist and light seemed to weave, giving the impression of a dazzling haze of silver light blossoming about the gleaming, white prow.

At first, reports had been laughed at, many believing that those who had 'witnessed' the wondrous ship had been a little too welcoming of helpings of Firewhiskey, but as repeated accounts continued to pour in by the hour, it became clear that it was no laughing matter.

First had it been seen by a young witch upon the coast of the Islands of the Azores, a gleaming form glimmering on the distant horizon. As she had watched through omnioculars, it had passed, silent and mysterious, brighter and more radiant than the sinking sun. No wake had followed it, almost as if the hull had not even touched the surface of water.

She had sent word at once, but none had believed her.

After all, no such vessel had been observed on Muggle devices and it was known to all that no vessel of such size and appearance existed. Quite clearly, most agreed, the young witch was in the hold of hallucinations.

At least, that was believed to be the safest and most appreciated explanation, in a world already near mad with fear.

However, only a short time later, the astounding vessel was seen by a small group of wizards on a fishing expedition, out in the open seas several leagues off the West coast of Portugal. 

In the stillness of the moonless night, it had been impossible to miss, passing so close to them that they had been able to see every elaborate and beautiful carving on the exquisite hull. 

Nigh close enough for them to stretch out their hands and touch the shimmering mist that surrounded it, it had moved silently past them, grace and beauty combined with a fluid rapidity that no mortal vessel could match, fading into the distance.

Immediately, word had been sent to those in authority, when it had come to their knowledge that the vessel had remained unseen by those who were not gifted as she and those of their ilk were. The very Captain of their boat had seen naught, even as they had stared in awe.

Muggles, as they were called, were apparently oblivious to its presence.

The fear caused by the appearance of the ship was tremendous, curiosity and terror vying for places in the hearts of those who heard of the movement of a ship that was clearly not of their world.

Rumours began, as rumours always do, questions and fears voiced over the origins of such a clearly magnificent vessel. The accounts of those who had witnessed it were quoted on street corners in lowered voices, the tale growing more elaborate and more detailed with every less and less accurate telling.

It was the enemy, some said. He was gathering a powerful and supernatural army to him, to begin a battle against their world. Others were more conservative in their views, yet it rapidly became clear that most believed the ship to carry allies of He Who Must Not Be Named.

The fears were only magnified when members of the Wizarding world sent an envoy to attempt to communicate with those upon the vessel. 

As soon as they neared, the mists surrounding the beautiful ship had roiled in silken waves and – in a heartbeat – the ship had vanished amid the billows, disappearing from sight, leaving naught but the empty, night-clad sea before the envoy. 

An emergency congress had been called at once, in a desperate attempt to quash the rising panic in the wizarding world. Within a handful of hours, wizards from all corners of the world were gathering for a council in London, the paranoia and fear of the origins of the strange vessel widespread.

The Great Chamber of the Ministry of Magic had once more been enlarged to allow all the many guests seating, faces of all races and ages lining the walls and tables about the room, all eyes focused upon one person.

"Has it given us any reason for concern, as of yet?" Albus Dumbledore asked, his voice calm and serious as he surveyed the panic-touched faces that lined the grand hall around him. He was seated, once more, at the head of the proceedings, respected more than any other wizard present.

Tall and noble in spite of his years, his features carried the wisdom of more than a century. A silver beard hung to his waist; like his hair, it was tucked casually into the belt about his waist. His colourful robes only served to provide him with an air of joviality, in spite of the severity in the air. Blue eyes gazed, ever patient, over the rims of half-moon spectacles, surveying all that was happening before him.

"It disappeared, instead of making a confrontation with the envoy," Emeraude Du Champs, the French Ambassador said. She was a small, plump, brown-haired woman, grave in features and demeanour. "That is not the action of an innocent."

"Ah yes," the aged wizard agreed. Age-marked hands were steepled before him, fingertips touching gracefully together. "But it did not attack either."

"What are you suggesting, Albus?" Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic, asked in a tremulous tone. 

Simple and fearful, it was the fault of the Minister and his utter inability to accept the truth that – for most of the prior year – the return of the Dark Wizard, Voldemort, had been pushed aside and ignored by many in the wizarding world.

At the same time, for much of the year, Fudge had accused Dumbledore of rumour mongering to decrease confidence in the bumbling Minister, driving Dumbledore and his allies into an underground alliance, fighting where no one else would nor could due to lack of knowledge about the situation. 

By failing to heed the elder wizard's advice, Fudge had haplessly placed his head in the noose he believed he was avoiding, until eyewitnesses provided solid and irrefutable evidence that the Dark Lord had, indeed, returned.

In discovering the truth of the situation, Fudge had once more come to depend on Albus Dumbledore for counsel and wisdom, many of the Minister's allies and those granting him financial funding proven to be those aiding the Dark Lord himself. It had been a cause of great disgrace and shame for the Minister, who was to step down at the turn of the next election.

Until then, however, he would preside, cowering and quivering at every mention of troubles in their world. 

"I am suggesting, Cornelius," Dumbledore's voice was quiet, yet reached every ear in the room. "That while many assume that this vessel carries enemies, they may be innocent bystanders or even allies. Not all those who conceal themselves from our sight are enemies, as was justly proved by Sirius Black only a few months ago. I say again, they may simply be innocents caught up in this furore by bad fortune."

"But then, they may not!" a harsh voice grated. A man rose at the far end of the table, shoulder-length dark hair loose about a face as coarse as stone. Cool, hard, steely eyes lingered upon the ancient wizard at the head table. "What gives you reason to believe they are anything but enemies? Why would they be so keen to remain concealed?"

Bright blue eyes, hard as diamond, gazed at the man. Contained fire glinted within the azure depths, an assurance that the one to argue had made a grave mistake. "If you were them, surely an armed envoy approaching without warning in the middle of the night would be intimidating, McGuire," he said with painstaking patience. "Had I been disturbed in the middle of the night by an armed ship, I do think I would conceal myself, rather than be seen rushing about on the ocean in my nightwear." 

McGuire, Chief aide to the absent Ambassador from the North America Consul, remained standing. One hand spread upon the surface of the table, the other a fist by his side. "Well then, what exactly are you saying they are, Dumbledore?"

"Perhaps fishermen?" Dumbledore's expression was open and sincere, blue eyes twinkling with bright mirth. He looked about, spreading his hands. "Fisherman out for a pleasure cruise at night…" 

"Now you're just being dumb!" McGuire's voice rose to an angry shout. "This is a serious matter, Dumbledore! We don't have time for this! For all we know this ship could be on its way to attack us!"

Eyes the colour of a summer-sky remained upon the Aide. McGuire's face was scarlet, eyes aflame with anger, an utter contrast to the calm façade presented by the aged wizard. "Ah yes," Dumbledore murmured. "They are sure to be sailing up the Thames as we speak, ready and able to launch an assault upon us, in our concealed Ministry."

"Dammit, man!" One of the British officials exclaimed. "McGuire is right! This is no joking matter!"

One age-lined hand rose, making a placating gesture. "Yes," Dumbledore said. "I do not, however, see how panicking or becoming angry with one another will be of any assistance at this precise moment. We do not know whether the owners of this vessel are friend or foe, yet everyone automatically assumes they are an enemy. I doubt any allies would appreciate being greeted as enemies."

There was a subdued silence.

"And if they are not friends?" a tall, slender Albanian witch asked, rising from her seat to draw his attention. She held his gaze determinedly. "What are we meant to be doing, if they are being enemies for us?"

An unreadable emotion passed upon Dumbledore's aged, lined features. "Then," he replied with the patience he was famed for. "I suppose that you may all tell me how wrong I was before we are forced into combat."

"And now, Albus? What are we to do now?" Fudge's voice resembled that of a plaintive, petulant child, whining, wheedling and demanding attention. "We don't even know where the blasted thing is! It could be on its way here!"

A smile playing about his lips, Dumbledore spread his hands. "I suppose that we examine the reports I have received regarding this ship. After all, it would be a little wiser to have some information about it, before we decide on whether they are friend or foe."

"Reports?" McGuire asked faintly.

"Oh yes, McGuire. I did mean to mention them beforehand, but I believe a few people present were a little too excitable to speak rationally." Dumbledore's smile was broad and warm. "I have all the available eye-witness accounts, including the most recent one that states that the vessel was seen off the West Coast of Ireland, heading North, and I was fortunate enough to have several photographs come into my hands."

McGuire sank, heavily, into his vacant seat, both hands clasped before him, one tight fist about another. His lean face tense with anger and consternation, he said nothing further.

Dumbledore smiled once more, reaching into the capacious depths of his robes. A file emerged in his hand, small and quite clearly charmed, and was laid upon the table. Serene, blue eyes gazed around. 

"Also," The old wizard opened the folder as he added in a tone of voice that was casual and amused at once, "I believe it is worthy of note that Voldemort has no idea who these people are, if they are – indeed – people at all. He, too, is presently seeking the answers to the questions you have posed here."

The confusion and astonishment around the table was palpable.

"How do you know this?" 

Dumbledore simply smiled. "Let it suffice that I do," he replied. 

***

Flame licked across the gleaming black of the walls, the torches fastened upon the stone crackling and snapping loudly in the silence that hung upon the air, cloying and threatening as death itself.

"What news have you for me?"

Among the legions of masked individuals, one stepped forth. "We have been unable to learn anything further, my Lord," said he, bowing deeply in hopes that his humility would suffice to placate his Master. "No one knows anything about this ship."

Dashed with flickering gold and amber from the torches, eyes red as blood rose to the man. Spider-like hands were folded in the Dark Lord's lap, fingers moving in a distracting manner against one another, almost as if they were toying with an object small enough to be contained between them, capturing the eye of his unwitting ally. 

"No one?" he said, a mere breath.

"No, my Lord, no one." The eyes beyond the mask glittered oddly, fixed upon the slow-moving hands, almost as if spellbound by them, drawn by something he could not see.

"Then they do not know if this is our friend or foe."

The one standing before the Dark Lord bowed, tearing his gaze from Voldemort's hands. "My Lord, I do not mean to question you, but… that is… we are wondering… do you know if this ship carries allies or enemies? After all, you are still…"

Ruby eyes were reduced to naught but slashes of colour beneath parchment-thin lids. "My dear Everett," Voldemort said. "I would not finish that sentence were I you. I may have seemed powerless, yes, but there is a difference between seeming and being weakened. Be sure you are aware which I am before you err. Lucius?" A second figure stepped forth. "Perhaps you would be kind enough to teach our young friend some manners and respect."

"It would be a pleasure, my Lord," Lucius Malfoy's voice positively throbbed with glee.

Everett was hauled roughly away by Crabbe and Goyle, both of whom had been safely liberated from Azkaban by Lucius' purse and influence. The Dark Lord exhaled a sigh, a soft gust of air whispering over dry lips. "I would that those fools had not been captured in the Ministry," he said, in part to himself, raising a hand to caress his chin in thought. "So many wasted."

Not one person, though, had courage nor folly enough to observe that it was in obeying their Master's orders that a number of their assembly had been captured by the Ministry of Magic's forces.

"Bella, my dear," The pale hand uncurled, almost drawing one of his aides towards him, as if holding her by an invisible chain. "I trust you have done what I asked."

"As always, my Lord, I live to serve you," a woman's voice responded, a tall, elegant figure sweeping into a graceful bow. "I have done all that you asked and have seen that all items were placed in the correct hands, or are – at the very least – on their way to their…" Her eyes glittered darkly behind the mask, which concealed her features. "Rightful owners."

The thin line of the Dark Lord's mouth curled upwards slightly. "Very good, Bella. I am pleased. Once they have reached their owners, it will be time to act." His gaze drifted about the circle of witches and wizards, his hands folding together once more. Slowly, slowly, they began to move against each other, once more granting the impression that he was toying with some small trinket. "But I must admit, this ship has triggered my interest."

"The ministry has convened in order to investigate the appearance of this ship and determine its origins," a voice spoke from the Dark Lord's left side, drawing his attention. A cloaked figured merged from darkness, soft and silent as shadow. "They have no idea what they are dealing with."

A long-fingered hand unfurled, bony and beckoning. "Come closer, Severus," the Master's voice was a low, sibilant hiss, barely audible over the crackle of the torches. The cloaked man moved forth, sinking to one knee before the Dark Lord. "Has the old fool learned anything?"

The hooded head bowed, the man replied, "No, my Lord. They only have access to the knowledge of the prior locations of the vessel, due to extensive eyewitness accounts which will doubtless prove useless unless the ship is found. They do not know its origins nor are they aware of its current location."

"And these eyewitness accounts?"

A small man scurried forth. "They have been delivered to the Daily Prophet, my Lord," he gabbled, a sheaf of papers held in a hand of gleaming silver. "I managed to acquire them for you. None of them have become public knowledge yet, my Lord. Only the Ministry convention knows of them."

"Like a rat sniffing for scraps of approval." The man recoiled as Voldemort snatched the pages from him, cowering back. Carnelian eyes moved rapidly upon them, a line of concentration deepening between the aged wizard's hairless brows.

The silence deepened, only broken by the rhythmic breathing and the quiet crackle of flames, and still, the Dark Lord looked upon the pages, his lipless mouth forming soundless words.

"This cannot be true."

Even that breathless whisper was audible to every ear in the echoing quiet.

Slit-pupiled scarlet eyes lifted to the one who had borne the reports, revealing none of their owner's thoughts, his expression – once more – revealing nothing. "Have these sightings been verified, Wormtail?"

"Y-yes, my Lord," the man replied, twisting his hands together.

The long, skeletal hands once more gathered the pages together, the Dark Lord's face bowed over them in thought. "Very well," said he quietly. "This ship holds no relevance for us as yet, but I wish to be informed of any developments regarding it."

"Yes, my Lord," the murmurs rippled around the room, many heads bowing.

Only the man who yet knelt by his Master's throne dared to look upon his Master's face. He, too, was the only one who saw the sudden consternation and fear that had come upon his Lord's face and, behind his mask, he smiled.

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Author's Notes: Wahey! Chapter 2, done and dusted. I must admit I didn't foresee that I would have so many lead in chapters. What was chapter 2 has now been pushed back to be chapter 4, to fit a load of additional stuff in. Ah, the joys of extra research. I've been having far too much fun reading random ones of the Unfinished Tales – Queen Beruthiel made me giggle somewhat, because she made me think of Mrs Figg. Except she's evil. 


	4. Chapter Three

Chapter Three - A Warm Welcome

Author's Notes: In case you haven't guessed, yes. Another chapter title borrowed from Tolkien. I like his titles and this one fits rather well, so I thought I might as well borrow it (Chapter Ten of The Hobbit, lest you wondered). And are you intrigued? I do hope so ;-D

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It became a fireside-story... a favourite character of legend and lived on long after all the true events were forgotten.

  
- **The Fellowship of the Ring (Chapter Two - The Shadow of the Past)**

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At Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the school term had begun on the first of September. From that day, nearly a full week passed without incident, nor with any sign of aught being amiss.

Of the mysterious ship, which had been sighted during the summer months, there had been no trace found. It seemed to have simply vanished, unseen, or perhaps, concealed by some greater power. 

Whispers had spread of it, yet, with its disappearance, the terror it had inspired had somewhat dissipated. None contained within the hall could know yet that the ship had once more re-emerged, less than a hundred miles from where they sat, only hours earlier.

Even so, the shadow of the Dark Lord's hand stretched far indeed, and fear was still foremost in the hearts and minds of the children.

Yet Hogwarts was known to be safe once more. 

The previous year, things had not been so certain. Another teacher had taken the post of the much-beloved Head Master, what was once a school becoming a prison for those unfortunates contained within, a place of torment and misery.

Now, though, Dumbledore was in his place once more. The Headmaster was the only person whom Voldemort had truly feared, and did truly fear, which led to the shaky belief that while Dumbledore was present within the school, no harm could come to any of them.

Or so they tried to believe.

When the doors of the Great Hall swung inwards during the evening meal, every head turned in their direction, fearful. In spite of all that was said of Dumbledore, the fear of the Dark Lord had grown to such an extent that it was believed he was capable of anything.

The golden tints of the early evening light washed across the broad hall through the tall windows that lined the hall, warm and embracing. Night was coming quickly, yet all thought of twilight was pushed far from the minds of those in attendance.

The bright face of the sun seemed to dim even into shadow in the face of the four figures, who stood upon the threshold, and it almost seemed that they gleamed with a veiled radiance. They stepped into the deathly silent hall, tall and graceful, and clad in cloaks of silver-grey that trailed upon the polished floor.

The foremost of the group raised his head, gazing up at the charmed ceiling, which was deepening in shade, brushed with cloud, then around at the multitude of young faces staring at him in wonder and confusion. A smile moved upon his lips, and he started to walk down the hall, his walking staff tapping quietly with every step.

It was uncanny, truly.

The leader of the group - or thus he appeared - bore a great resemblance to the Head Master of the school. Flowing, snowy white hair and a beard of the same colour fell to his waist, like twin waterfalls, a glimmer of merry mischief in his wise, clear, bright blue eyes that seemed to contain the wisdom of all the ages. 

A dusk-grey, hooded cloak made of a thick fabric, which trailed behind him on the floor, countered Dumbledore's vividly coloured attire, the tall, white walking staff in his age-scored hand another addition.

Even so, while the white-haired intruder looked aged, there was an energy and life in his movement, a brightness in his expression, which made him appear fresh and far younger than he ought to have.

So intently were the pupils and teachers watching him that they did not observe his three companions, who followed him. They seemed to move soundless upon the floor, but for the rustle of their robes. Their heads were bowed, their faces shielded by their hoods, their slender hands folded before them, two decorated by elaborate rings, but they held a grace and pride that no mortal could ever hope to achieve.

The chief intruder reached the dais, whereupon the teachers sat at the long High Table. The Head Master had risen, his wand clutched in his hand, and directed upon the invader, his concern apparent at the breach of the wards around the school.

Coming to a gradual halt, the odd old man leaned upon his white staff as one who had reached the satisfactory conclusion of a long journey, and gazed at the Head Master, a benevolent twinkle in his eyes, which shone as blue as a summer sky.

A silence clung to the air, deafening in its resonance.

Looks of bewilderment passed among those occupying the High Table, looks that went unnoticed by either of the aged men. Bright blue eyes held equally blue, power palpable between them.

When it came to pass, every eye in the grand chamber witnessed it: Professor Albus Dumbledore's rosy-hued face drained of all colour, his wand trembling, then slipping from shaking fingers. It bounced, clattering upon the floor briefly, and was still.

Whispers rushed around the hall, eyes widened, faces pale, question upon question falling from fearful lips. Who, they wished to know, would cause Dumbledore to react thus? Who was the grey-clad man and where had he come from?

"Head Master?" Minerva McGonagall, seated next to the old wizard, touched his arm, her face wrought with anxious fear. "Albus?"

The Head Master made no answer, although a hand came to his heart, his eyes wide, lips parted in astonishment. Pushing his chair from the table, he moved around the table, his eyes not once leaving the man before him. 

"It cannot be..." he whispered, the words echoing in the vastness of the hall, earning queer glances from his students.

The old man laughed, a sound so warm and full of good humour that even the most sour-faced individual present found himself smiling in response. 

"My dear Albus," he said jovially, his voice deep, resonant and merry. "Has this world changed so much that doubt stands in place of welcome for a wandering old man and his companions returned from distant shores?" 

Approaching the man, Dumbledore looked as one who had seen the greatest wonders of the world, laid bare before him. His gaze roamed to the hooded faces of the old man's companions, and he seemed to falter in his step.

"You have returned? All of you?"

The old man laughed again. "Alas!" he exclaimed merrily. "I had hoped that you would not notice that! And yes, we have returned. Word came to us from the East, a threat and a shadow and, in our past, we have dealt with a threat of similar kind. We may only be here for a short time, but here we are and that is that!" 

"We are honoured by your presence, Sir," the Head Master said, his reverent voice one of awe and wonder. To the astonishment of all those present, he sank on one knee before the aged man.

"Now, now!" the old man chastised. He bent, and drew Dumbledore back to his feet, shaking his head with gravity, which was belied by the twinkle in his eyes. "We shall have none of that, you young scamp!"

More than a dozen gasped at the words of the grey man, surprised perhaps that he could call Dumbledore young. Yet still, there was something of the nature of the old man which suggested he might be one of the few present who could say such a thing in all sincerity, the wisdom of the ages drawn to measure in his fathomless blue eyes.

"But Sir..."

All eyes of a thousand faces lingered upon the two, one of whom was still awed, the other amused.

"I said none of that," the grey-clad elder said sternly, tutting. "Unless you wish that I perform the same duty to you. You are the leader of this cheerful assembly; therefore to you respect must be given."

Dumbledore nodded slowly. "Will you join us for dinner?" he asked cautiously, as if afraid of causing some offence to his guests. He motioned around the Great Hall, lest the intruders were unaware of its existence. "As you can see, we are partaking of our evening meal."

One of the three figures, who had remained five paces from the man in grey, stepped forward. "I am afraid that we have no time to rest," said he. His voice was smooth and mellifluous, with the intonation of one speaking in a tongue that was not his own by nature. "Your pardon, but this is a dangerous time for both you and your people. If we are to provide aid..."

"Nonsense! No time to rest, indeed!" the grey-clad man said, laughing jovially as he looked to his companions. "We can spare but a little time to learn what changes have come to pass since we went across the sea."

"Indeed a wise decision," another spoke, a beautifully lilting musical female voice, deeper than most, which drew many a sigh from their captive audience. "Foolish would it be to believe that our past wisdom will suffice in a world we no longer know as our own." She approached Dumbledore with a smooth tread, extending a slender hand to him, upon which a ring shone bright. "You do us honour in your invitation."

Dumbledore raised her hand to his lips gallantly and his eyes lifted to her, then he blushed quickly and bowed. "It is an honour to have guests such as you here, my Lady." She laughed, a soft, rich sound. His face rosy once more, Dumbledore turned to Minerva. "Minerva would you be kind enough to provide a table for our guests. I seem to have... misplaced my wand." 

A look of doubt passed over the Witch's face, but she acquiesced. With a murmured spell, the High Table appeared to grow before their eyes, the rest of the teachers moved to accommodate it. It spread along between the Head Master's elaborate seat and Professor McGonagall's own chair, four fine chairs appearing behind it, plates of gold atop the smooth, polished surface.

The old man observed with clear amusement and interest as the spell was performed, a smile upon his lips. "Such a small staff," he noted, glancing to his own, which stood nigh as tall as he did. "You still utilise such a thing?" 

Dumbledore inclined his head. "They have become a necessity," he replied, making a motion towards the new table. "Will you sit?"

"After you, dear fellow," the old man replied jovially, the group making there way to the table. With much insistence from Dumbledore, the elder took Dumbledore's own beautiful seat, the Head Master placing himself between the old man and the woman.

Leaning forth to meet Dumbledore's gaze, Minerva McGonagall spoke in a lowered voice. "Albus," whispered she, an apologetic look granted to the old man between them. "I don't mean to be rude, but who are these people?"

"They are our very special guests, Minerva," Albus replied merrily. "I will be sure to introduce them, once this meal is finished, perhaps in the privacy of my office, eh? I would hate to make a scene." Minerva stared at him, perhaps wondering if he had been blind to the reaction to his own display of awe and wonder. "They may yet prove the weight to tip the balance in our favour in this coming battle."

Minerva appeared to desire to ask more of him. However, the even looks of the two bearded old men, both gently chastising her with twinkling blue eyes, sufficed to keep her silent, turning her attention back to her meal.

Once seated, the three hooded individuals lowered their hoods. Once more, it seemed that a radiance filled the hall, spreading out from the three fair figures. Each of them looked young and beautiful, yet their eyes carried the wisdom of the ages.

The woman at Dumbledore's side was beauty embodied, long golden hair framing her face, a peaceful look upon features that were untouched by age. To her left, a tall, noble man sat. His hair was dark and lustrous and near as long as his neighbour's, his eyes keen and bright. The last of the group was as fair as his two companions, pale hair drawn back from a proud face, deep grey eyes serious.

Only the most observant of the students and teachers present in the Great Hall, who were few and far between, noticed that the bared ears of the fair-haired man tapered to points at the tips. 

Somewhere in the silent hall, a fork clattered noisily on a plate.

Even along the staff table, eyes stared wonderingly at the four guests. 

"I do believe that you have made quite an impression," Dumbledore observed to the elder seated on his right, a suggestion of a smile playing about his lips.

The old man smiled broadly, and his eyes shone with mirth. "It has been many a year since any of your kind has seen those of my Lady and Lord's race," he said. "All but a few journeyed into the West many moons ago."

"I am beginning to find it a wonder that anything was achieved by the Men in your time, if this is the response triggered by our friends here," Dumbledore said, to which the fair woman laughed softly.

"You must recall," she said, laying a hand upon his. "That our people were plenteous in times past. Your children react thus, as they have never before seen faces such as those we present to them."

Turning to the upturned faces of his students and teachers all, Dumbledore rose from his seat. "As you can see," he said, spreading his hands to indicate to his guests. "We have some honourable guests for dinner this evening. Oh, and I would suggest you actually look at your food before aiming for your mouth. Enjoy your meal."

It was a subtle suggestion, yet many students took the words to heart. Turning their heads from the intense gazes of the visitors, they went back to their meals, as food appeared on the most recently added table.

Leaning down to one side, the elder retrieved Dumbledore's wand from the floor. He studied it intently, turning it over in his hands, wonder in his face. "So small," he marvelled once more. "So very small. You conduct your power through this?" 

"It is not truly our own power," Dumbledore replied. "As mortals, we do not have sufficient power to channel our somewhat feeble abilities. Inside each wand, there is a substance from a magical creature that combines with our natural abilities, allowing us to perform spells. Were the wand any larger, I doubt we would be able to use it, which means that a staff would become somewhat redundant."

"I suppose it is only sensible to change the size to fit your abilities," the old man observed pensively. "And, after all, I doubt you need to walk great distances, so a staff would be most unnecessary."

Dumbledore laughed. "That is certainly true," he agreed, gratefully taking his wand from the elder's hand. "There are many modes by which we may travel now, and few of them require walking."

"Yes... yes, and I see it would be rather difficult to channel your magic through a larger staff than this," The old man continued to turn the wand between his fingers, studying the smooth wood with fascination. "I always forget that the abilities of men were less powerful than the wizards of old."

"Which is both fortunate and unfortunate, in many cases," Dumbledore said, his tone one of gravity, although he could not seem to wrench his eyes from the face of the old man. "On occasion, there will be one who is granted with more power than most, according to their lineage and sheer chance. Sometimes that power proves too much of a temptation for the weak hearts of men."

A piercing blue eye turned upon him. "And one of these men is the cause of your discontent at present." Dumbledore inclined his head in acknowledgement. "We must discuss this further, privately, but for now, let us enjoy this feast!" Examining the grand spread upon the table, a curious look came to his eye. "Your meals are brought to you by magic?"

Once more, the Head Master nodded. A cautious look came upon his face and he looked to the other three guests. "We have a breed of unusual little creatures called house elves, who all but run the inner workings of the castle."

"House Elves?" the fair male asked. His attention had been on the food spread before him, unfamiliar to him, curiosity marked upon his proud features. However, at the Head Master's words, eyes as grey as a thundercloud turned, piercing, upon the old wizard. "What manner of creatures are they?" 

Dumbledore spread his hands in uncertainty. "We are uncertain of their origins but they are loyal to their Masters and love to work. It is to their pleasure to keep grand households running," he replied with care. "They do not resemble any Elves I have heard of before, smaller and certainly not as fair."

"I would much like to meet one of these creatures," the fair man said, and it seemed that a melancholy mood came upon his gentle features. "It has been many a year since I have looked upon the face of one not of my race, nor of the face of men."

Dumbledore inclined his head. "I'm sure that might be arranged."

"May I ask an imposition of you, Sir?" the fair man continued.

The Head master spread his hands. "You may. I may not answer as you might like, but yes, ask away."

"The grounds of your castle will contain caves will they not?"

A smile touched upon Dumbledore's lips. "Ah, yes," he replied, leaning back in his seat and steepling his fingers before his chest. "We have a harbour of sorts beneath the school, where the first year students arrive. There are many wondrous caves spreading from there. If I may ask...?"

The fair man bowed his head slightly. "I have a vow to fulfil," he replied in a quiet tone. His voice and face were suffused with proud grief. "A promise sworn to my dearest friend upon his death bed many long ages past. He wished that I might seek out the most beauteous of caverns I could if it were not possible to return to the Glittering caves that were so beloved to him. There, he asked me to utter a lament to him in my tongue."

"Was he of your kind?"

Grey eyes closed briefly, a sigh whispering from sorrow-kissed lips. "No, and that is why he is lost to me," The reply was tainted with deep sadness. "I, in part, wish he had been of my kith and kin, that the river of his life had not frozen in the winter of his years." 

"You do your friend a great honour," Dumbledore said softly. "I will trust Hagrid to lead you to the caves, if you wish it." He nodded towards the figure at the far end of the table, large, dark and terrifying to those who did not know him. "He is well acquainted with every part of the school, as am I, yet my age would hinder us, were I to guide you."

"My appreciation would be boundless, Sir." 

The Head Master bowed his head. "It's my pleasure to help," he said.

"Master Dumbledore," the woman murmured lowly. Her eyes turned upon him, clear and bright, as if dashed by darts of starlight. "I would know of one of your students, if I may." She directed her gaze towards one of the tables, where a black-haired youth sat, flanked by an equally young woman and man. "The shadows have marked him and he knows that he is close to being devoured by darkness."

"Ah," the Head Master said quietly. "That is Harry Potter. The death of his parents saved him from the Dark Lord, when he was a child. That Dark Lord has returned once more and his rage is directed at young Mr. Potter. Even now, he is haunted by it." Dumbledore sighed. "He is a brave young man, remarkably brave for one so young. Perhaps you would meet him once the meal is over?"

The woman nodded once. "Such pain in him, and such strength," she said in a soft, grave voice. "So very young." 

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Author's Notes: Place your bets on who the guests are, ladies and gents! :D This was the first section written, actually and, while it has been added to, very little was changed from the first draft. I had an awful lot of fun with it as well, as if you couldn't tell. How often do we get to see fangirl!Dumbledore? :) 


	5. Chapter Four

Chapter Four - Many Meetings

Author's Notes: I apologise for the delay in this chapter. Since the writing of the last, I have been working and have been busy. Plus, I have moved back across Europe. On top of which, I haven't had the time I need for re-reading my HP books. Still, here we go: another Tolkien chapter title: from Ch 1 of book 2 of FotR 

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The Three, fairest of all, the Elf-lords hid from him, and his hand never touched them or sullied them

-**FotR (Ch. 2 - The Shadow of the Past)**

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Always after a defeat and respite, the Shadow takes another shape and grows again

-**FotR (Ch. 2 - The Shadow of the Past)**

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Its strength... is too great for anyone to wield at will, save only those who have already a great power of their own. But for them it holds an even deadlier peril.

-**FotR (B2. Ch. 2 - The Council of Elrond)**

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He's got other plans too, plans he can put into operation very quietly indeed, and he's concentrating on those for the moment.

- **OotP (Ch. 5 - The Order of the Phoenix**) 

On a normal occasion, most of the students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry would have resented any interruption to their evening meal.

However, such occasions did not seem to include the arrival of four complete strangers, three of whom were quite possibly the most beautiful creatures that the staff and student body had ever laid eyes upon.

Throughout a meal that had seemed to take a great deal longer than it ought to, all eyes had stayed upon the three beautiful faces of the visitors, until the Head Master had wisely observed that perhaps he and his guests should depart, as the rumble of bellies remaining unfilled was becoming quite deafening.

The communal sigh when those three celestial faces had departed was one of melancholy and longing, though - as the Headmaster had so shrewdly observed - as soon as they were gone, food suddenly became a good deal more appetising.

Noise had built up once more around the many tables of the hall, gradually, like the rattle then roar of a landslide, voices rising in conversation and mirth, until the guests seemed all but forgotten in the social moment that was dinner.

Alas, all most cheerful moments have the unfortunate side-effect of being a source of great disappointment when brought to a close and such was the case when the merry congregation was ended by the Deputy Head Mistress, the house common rooms awaiting the attention of their residents.

Amid the throng of youngsters scattering outwards from the Great Hall, a triad had lingered, curious and intrigued. 

While initially, the presence of the four mysterious guests had caused a ripple of confusion amid the scores of children, only a few were still giving the matter serious consideration and none more so than young Harry Potter and his friends.

"Did you see Dumbledore?" his red-haired companion's voice was lowered to little more than a whisper. "He bowed... that old bloke.... he bowed to him..."

"Yes, Ron," the only girl of the trio observed, her hands pressed together as if she were suddenly assailed by an attack of unexpected nervousness. "We were all in the hall as well, you know."

"But if Dumbledore bows, then it has to be someone important, doesn't it?" Ron's voice trembled with fear and excitement. "I mean, this is Dumbledore! He doesn't bow to anyone! That's right, isn't it, mate?" 

His words were directed at his friend, but received no response. Harry Potter's hands were boring deep into the pockets of his robes, his expression distant, almost as though he were on another plane of existence entirely, a small smile playing about his lips for the first time in months.

The very moment that the quartet had arrived in the hall, he had been silent, shifting uncomfortably, yet when he had risked a glance and found the beautiful woman looking at him, all his fears and concerns seemed to have been cast asunder by the warmth in her starlight-filled eyes. 

As had all ability to even think about speaking.

Or thinking for that matter. 

A peace unlike any he had ever experienced before had settled upon his troubled soul, delicate and beautiful and entirely captivating.

"Maybe it was his favourite singer," a dreamy voice spoke from nearby. All three turned to face the owner of the voice, whose wide, ever-innocent pale eyes gazed back at them placidly. "After all, he was awfully excited about it, so it must have been someone famous." 

A strange squeak slipped from Hermione Granger's throat, a rather strained smile on her lips. "Perhaps, Luna," she agreed.

The younger witch, Luna Lovegood, continued to gaze at them as she walked alongside them. Her hair was twisted into untidy knots on either side of her head, her wand emerging jauntily from one of them and a string of bottle caps, hung about her neck, jingled softly against the dark material of the front of her robes.

"Who do you think they were, Harry?" she asked, her wide, bright eyes upon the dark-haired young man, who seemed deep in contemplation, as he had been since the visitors had arrived.

Green eyes blinked, surprised. "I-I... er... I dunno."

"People of great significance." Hermione's voice was laced with authority, though her expression revealed she knew no more of the situation than any other. "After all, I hardly think Dumbledore would let dangerous people into the school."

"Especially not dangerous people with pointed ears," Luna's eyes wandered the walls of the hall as she started humming softly to herself.

The three others stopped in their tracks, staring at the younger witch as if she had sprouted a second head. "Pointed ears?" Ron sounded faint. "What d'you mean 'pointed ears'?"

"Their ears were pointed. At least the ones without beards," Luna replied, looking at Ron, her expression earnest. "Surely you noticed something that obvious, Ronald."

Colour suffused the red-haired prefect's face and he shook his head once.

However, Luna's words seemed to be making some semblance of sense to the bushy-haired girl on his other side. Hermione's face seemed to have lost what colour it had, one hand rising to press to her mouth. "Oh goodness..."

"What is it?"

"The ship! That odd ship which was seen!" The two boys stared at her, bewildered. Hermione waved a hand, the gesture fraught with impatience. "It's been all over the wizarding papers for weeks!" A sound of muffled excitement escaped her. "Oh my! This is absolutely amazing!"

"Eh?"

"But it can't be... I mean, that would be simply impossible... I always thought it was just a story, but if... oh! If you look at it that way... it all makes sense!"

"What d'you mean, Hermione?"

The girl turned to Harry, a shaking hand touching his arm, as if she needed to seek an anchor in reality, her mouth opening and closing several times before a sound came forth. "They've come back," she whispered.

"What are you on about, Hermione?" Ron demanded with confusion, looking ever more perplexed. "Harry, mate, you know what she's on about?" Harry's shoulders lifted helplessly. "Hermione, you're confusing us. More than usual. Want to tell us who or what you're going on about?"

Another rather mad giggle escaped the girl. "Elves!" she exclaimed, then she seemed to come to realise precisely what she had said. Her eyes went round, a soft gasp escaping her. "Elves!"

And with that, she fainted. Ron and Harry both grasped at her before she could hit the cold stone of the floor.

Ron raised his eyes to Harry as they drew their friend up between then. "You know, mate," he said, his tone weary. "I always knew her obsession with that SPEW stuff would drive her batty."

With Hermione's arm slung about his shoulder, her body utterly dependant upon him and his companion, Harry certainly couldn't disagree with his friend's sentiments as they changed direction and started towards the Medical wing. Behind them wandered Luna, singing softly under her breath.

***

The twilight-stretched shadows caressed the deepening gloom of the Manor, as a single, solitary figure ascended a long staircase, shadow and flame playing about his face as he moved past torches hung in high brackets upon the polished wall.

In one hand, a scroll of parchment was held, as if it were the greatest treasure he could possess.

Approaching a night-darkened door, one gloved hand was lifted and knocked firmly upon the wood. Opening it with caution, the wizard entered and sank upon one knee before his Master.

"Word has reached me, my Lord."

Standing close to the broad windows, gazing out on the grounds of the Manor, the Dark Wizard seemed oblivious. His hands were moving feverishly, twisting, turning together. Occasionally, the light of the fire sparked upon the object in his hands, but seldom long enough to identify it.

"My Lord?"

A face that looked as if it had been crafted from bone turned, pale light from the moon and the warming glow of the flame meeting in horrible unity upon the wizard's distorted features. "Ah, Lucius."

Rising from his position, Lucius Malfoy closed the distance between them, holding forth the scroll. "My Lord, my son sent me word," he said, though his words were filled with trepidation, as if he knew that he was the bearer of foul tidings. "Strangers have arrived at the school."

The eyes of Voldemort glittered eerily by the light of the flame and then, he laughed, cold and high. "Yes... yes," he said, his skeletal hands yet moving, never halting. His voice was distant, almost as one under a powerful charm, his eyes focused upon nothing. "I suspected they might approach him, if they are who I believe them to be..."

"You knew of this already, my Lord?"

A dismissive gesture from his Master was all the answer he received. Wraith-like, the dark wizard returned his gaze to the window once more, closing his eyes as his fingers continued to move.

Between them, a single golden ring was turned, over and over, ever in contact with his flesh, as his lips moved, shaping silent chants and charms, words spoken in a dark, powerful language none had uttered in millennia.

***

"Are all the students safely ensconced in their dormitories?"

Minerva McGonagall nodded. "All but Potter, Weasley, Granger and Lovegood," she replied. "Miss Granger had a rather funny turn after dinner. Weasley and Potter took her to the Medical wing."

Seated in the spacious staff room, the other aged wizard beside him, Dumbledore's smile was serene once more. "I suspected that she might have come to a conclusion about our visitors," he remarked, turning to the elder man beside him. "Miss Granger really is remarkably clever."

"You believe one of your students would realise?" 

"With Miss Granger, I have come to believe that anything is possible" the Head Master chuckled, then rose to his feet, surveying all the members of the staff body standing around the room. Near every eye was upon the three fairer guests.

The dark-haired male was standing by the window, one hand spread upon the pane, gazing out upon the night-darkened grounds, the woman standing - fair and tall - by his side, one hand upon his shoulder.

The third of their number was half-seated upon the broad arm of a chair, one foot resting upon the seat, his hand resting on his knee. His dark eyes were closed and a soft song spilled from his lips, the language unfamiliar and hauntingly beautiful.

"I am sure you are all wondering who our distinguished guests are," Dumbledore's voice, though strong, did not carry the power to draw all attention to him. "They have travelled a great distance to join us."

"Albus..." the words fell from the lips of Minerva McGonagall. "If I may be so bold as to ask... who are these people?" Even so, as she spoke, she did not turn to her friend of so many years, her eyes lingering on the features of the dark-haired man.

"People, Minerva?" the aged wizard said with a knowing smile. "Whatever makes you think they would answer to such a title?"

That, if naught else, drew the attention of the astounded teachers, eyes looking to Dumbledore with fresh inquisitiveness, then to their nigh celestial guests, whose ageless faces bore no such emotion.

Professor Sinistra, teacher and lover of astronomy, raised a hand to her lips. "Surely not," she whispered, her voice tremulous with fear and reverence. "Head Master... the Unknown ship... the stirrings in the sky... the change in the Evenstar."

With every word spoken by the woman, the smile playing upon Dumbledore's lips broadened. "I trust you understand what this means," he intoned softly.

Sinistra's already pallid face lost what colour it had and she sank down upon one of the seats. "But it... Professor, I-I was sure it was nothing but fiction... and even if it was true, it... it's impossible..." Her words, so tremulous, lacked the conviction they required. "It has to be impossible..."

"Impossible it may seem," the fair woman turned from her companion, the silken spill of her golden tresses gleaming by the light of the fire, which crackled merrily in the hearth. "But it is the truth." She glanced to Dumbledore. "Might I speak openly?"

"Of course, dear lady," Dumbledore replied, bowing his head.

The woman nodded, drawing herself to her grand height. So great was the pride, beauty and dignity upon her fair face that many present lowered their eyes in awe and respect. 

"Darkness is once more upon you," she spoke. Her voice was soft, yet not one of them had to strain to hear her every word. "Even the one who has resurrected this power does not comprehend the magnitude of his actions." A graceful hand was raised, one of the slim fingers adorned by a single silver ring decorated with a misty white stone which shone as bright as a star and upon which the flames in the hearth danced and glittered. "Once more did Nenya feel the presence of One that should ne'er have been formed."

"Nenya?" The tremulous gasp fell from the parted lips of Minerva McGonagall. "I-I don't understand..." Green eyes were flooded with consternation and trepidation as they met blue. "Albus, wasn't that the name of..."

"The Ring of Adamant," the Headmaster said, his aged voice and countenance grave. "And its keeper was the Lady of Lórien, the Lady Galadriel."

"Headmaster, surely what you are referring to is merely legend," Vector broke in, looking both concerned and hopeful. Murmurs spread through the assembled staff body, nods exchanged. "It is only a story, after all."

Dumbledore glanced to the aged man beside him, then rose to his feet, his robes rustling heavily about him. Pressing his fingertips together, he regarded the other teachers with patience. 

"Consider ancient history," he replied with quiet gravity. "Much of that which we view as legend in history emerges from some root of truth. Is it so very difficult to believe that our world began in a world many regard as merely a tale?"

"Then you mean to inform us that the One Ring and the legend of Sauron..."

"Were all true, in the first days of your world," the aged man beside Dumbledore said, rising, his countenance as grave as Dumbledore's. Blue eyes, serious, gazed about. "And those origins are the reason we have returned." Bringing his staff before him, he exhaled a breath. "The very roots of the darkness that were believed to have been vanquished with destruction of the One Ring have merely been dormant." 

"D-dormant?"

"'We'? What do you mean 'we'?"

"One Ring?"

"How did you know?"

"Where did you come from?"

"This is nonsense!"

The flurry of voices nigh drowned one another out, each rivalling the others in volume and demand. Albus Dumbledore raised a hand, gesturing for silence, his visage and words grave. 

"You all know that Voldemort is powerful and intelligent," said he. "He studied all lore and dark magics he could find and now, it becomes clear that he found even those from beyond the beginnings of our world. He found that which had long been lost," He sighed deeply, wearily. "And used it."

"And in forming a Ring of Power of his own," the dark male said, turning from the window, upon which a misted hand-print lingered, soft against the sharp night beyond. "He has once more caused a connection to be re-established with the Rings that have survived so long, without power or use." The hand that had so recently pressed against the glass was brought up before his breast, revealing a gold ring bearing a blue stone upon his finger. "Once more, they felt the power of the One." His grey eyes dropped to the jewelled ring. "Once more, were we called and once more, this world stands upon the brink of shadow." 

"This," the fair woman spoke, her words soft upon the fear-filled silence, "Is why we have returned. Though the Firstborn and Istari have long since passed from your world, this threat could not be ignored further."

"While this is no longer our place," the aged wizard said, pushing aside his heavy sleeve to reveal a ring upon his own hand, this one bearing a red jewel. "The power that has been unleashed could be the undoing of all. Even the one who put these wheels in motion does not comprehend what he has done, the power he has re-awoken and what it could lead to."

"Wh-what do you mean?" Minerva McGonagall asked faintly.

Shadowed looks past among the three bearers of the Rings. 

"The Dark One of your times has used lore and arts crafted by Sauron himself," the aged man replied. "Arts that no mortal dare use without great peril to themselves. It will possess him and consume him entirely, the very magics draining the life from him, twisting him into something beyond what he is." 

The wizard closed his eyes for a moment, his expression troubled, the fair woman speaking for him. "In times past, Sauron used the weakness of spirit so prevalent in mortals to bend them to his will, to draw them to him and use him for his benefit." 

"But Sauron..." Minerva McGonagall's voice trembled, as if she was both afraid and perplexed by the use of the name, her face white as bone. "He was destroyed. If the ring was destroyed, surely he's gone." 

The aged wizard looked at her. "Yes," he said, his words grave, soft, yet carrying to every ear. "Sauron was destroyed, struck from the face of the earth, leaving naught but traces of his history and legend." He sighed, weary. "We fear there may be the chance that the dark powers used to forge a new ring will be strong enough to overthrow the mortal creator, taking his life and the lives of those connected with him, using their very essence to draw Sauron's spirit once more from the ether." Blue eyes closed, as if in great pain, then opened slowly, gazing at each face. "With time, he would rise, as terrible and great, and cover the world in shadow once more."

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Author's Note: *sighs* I'm so glad to have this chapter out of the way. That's a huge chunk of the information-y stuff dropped down. A lot to take in, yes, but to write, even more so. And to think this whole fic resides in my head. Ouch. And no, I haven't identified all our visitors by name yet, but that will come with time.

Can't say when the next chapter will be out and about, but that's the situation for all my babies at the moment.


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